


dug deeper than a crooked splinter

by youabird (nevulon)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Communication, Engagement, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-24 04:52:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18161699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevulon/pseuds/youabird
Summary: Gabe took a long time to answer. He flipped a pancake carefully, placed it in the oven, and then stood up to his full height. He looked serious, almost grave, the way he never was at home with just the three of them. "Do you want to get married?" he said."To you?" Tyson asked idiotically.Gabe smiled. "Who else would have you?"





	dug deeper than a crooked splinter

**Author's Note:**

> set in a highly alternate February 2019. you can tell it's an alternate universe because of all the, uh, fiction happening. apologies to gabe's family for making them fictionally villainous; absolutely no apologies to Tyson's dad, who, if anything, gets off lightly here. don't own, etc., if you are/know someone depicted herein don't read, etc.
> 
> title from Thunder Clatter by Wild Cub

 

Ever since Tyson moved in, Zoey had stuck herself to his side like glue. She liked him fine before—Tyson had spent most of his time at Gabe's over the last year, and she seemed to approve of how willing he had been to toss slobber-covered tennis balls around the yard with her. But Zoey had always been Gabe's dog, Gabe's best friend. Wherever Gabe was, Zoey was normally sprawled at his feet, reveling in his attention.

It was a shock, then, when he realized that Zoey had elected herself his permanent shadow. At first she just liked hanging out on the sofa with him when Gabe had already gone to bed; then she started appearing at _his_ feet, brown eyes turned up at him full of love. Gabe was jealous, and then annoyed with himself for being jealous, and then he went to work trying to bribe back her affections with peanut butter. So far, it hadn't worked. Zoey was attached to Tyson _and_ she ate a lot of peanut butter.

Tyson didn't mind. He hadn't done anything apart from show up and stick around, but if Zoey wanted to love him, he was fine with it.

The night after they lost to the Stars, Tyson went out with Jamie and came home to the house already quiet. That wasn't unexpected, but Tyson still winced as he drunkenly shed his coat. The heat was low for the night and the hardwood was cold against his sock feet.

In the living room, Zoey was keeping vigil. "Hey girl," he said, sitting next to her and petting her hello. "Where's Gabe? Already in bed?"

She rolled and showed him her belly. Tyson smiled. "Your dad is so _fucking lazy_. Who leaves empty bottles on the nice wood table?"

He got up and collected the handful of Gatorade bottles, tossed them in the garbage and straightened up the kitchen. He clumsily set the coffeemaker for tomorrow morning, ignoring the dishes in the sink that had already been sitting for a day. Behind him, Zoey sat in the doorway, her tail thumping away. When the house looked presentable, he called it a night. They went up together, turning off the lights as they went.

Zoey jumped up on to his side of the bed and immediately curled up next to Gabe, snuffling in his face. Gabe yelped; Tyson, back turned so he could wrestle himself out of his fancy jeans, nearly tripped in his haste to find out why. "She licked me," Gabe said grumpily, clearly not asleep, with most of a pitbull on his chest and his phone in his hand. "Why is she on the bed, Tys?"

"She was persuasive," Tyson said. "Also, I'm drunk."

Gabe's nose scrunched up, and he flopped back onto the pillows. "Did you have fun?"

"Don't be a jerk," Tyson said. He threw his sock at Gabe and missed by a mile. "You'll upset Zoey."

"She's a dog," Gabe said, petting her silky soft ears. "It's not like she cares." He was directing all his attention at Zoey, but Tyson wasn't an idiot, even when drunk. Normally Gabe tolerated his friendship with Jamie, but normally they didn't lose in a shut-out. Exhausted and full of beer, Tyson went into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

He heard Zoey leap off the bed and Gabe's groan of annoyance. A second later, her cold nose nudged against his bare calf. "You are not helping," he told her, which she answered with a whine until Tyson reached down to pet her.

Gabe was face-down in the pillows when Tyson crawled into bed. Not daring to piss Gabe off further, he didn't let Zoey join them. Just as she'd done every night for months, she ignored her bed at the footboard and came around to Tyson's side, curled as close to him as she could get while still on the floor.

The bed was too big, which was the problem. Tyson's bed, still at his house that he was letting sit vacant, was a double that he'd inherited from someone who maybe should have just thrown it out. Gabe's was a king, so they had both agreed that was the bed they ought to keep. But in the double bed, Gabe couldn't storm off to the edge of the mattress and ignore him.

Tyson sighed and pushed closer to the center. In the dark, he couldn't tell where Gabe's face was pointed. "Hey," he said. "We missed you."

"Really? Benn missed me?"

Gabe kept trying to punch Jamie in the face. Not because of Tyson, but because Gabe thought he was a massive asshole and always had done. He did not care that Tyson and Jamie had made out as teenagers or that they'd known each other a billion years; if he was jealous of anything, it was that Tyson refused to automatically blacklist any other guy who played in the Central. Jamie also thought Gabe was an asshole. Tyson never bothered trying to make them play nice, even though he loved them both; they managed to say hello in passing, and that was as warm a detente as they were likely to get.

" _I_ missed you," he amended.

"Well, nobody made you go," Gabe said snottily. If they had won or at least been in danger of winning at any point, Gabe would have let this go. He also would have gone to Mikko's place or done something more productive than sulking. Tyson was disappointed and angry after that game, but seeing Jamie helped. Gabe preferred to marinate in his losses, alone.

"I just hate that you were by yourself," Tyson said.

Gabe sighed. He'd behaved badly and he knew it. In apology, he rolled a quarter turn towards him. "I wasn't alone. I talked to Claesson, it was nice to catch up. And I had Zoey."

"She kept you company?"

"Sorta. She was waiting for you to get home." Gabe huffed out in irritation, but it was mostly for show. "She _used_ to love me best, you know."

"I know," Tyson said, warm with love for both of them. He crept closer, probably not subtle, but Gabe knew how he felt about him. "It's a circle, Gabe. You love her best, she loves me best."

"Yeah? And what about you?"

"Don't be dumb, Gabe," Tyson said, pinching Gabe on the hip. Gabe caught his hand and pinned it there—just what Tyson wanted. " _Obviously_ I love you the most."

For a minute, Gabe didn't say anything. He threaded their fingers together and said nothing and Tyson lay there in the dark, the only sound that of Zoey breathing deeply. It wasn't anything he hadn't said before, but he was still getting used to hearing himself say it. He didn't think he'd ever be used to it.

"Wow," Gabe said quietly. "You must be really drunk."

Laughing, Tyson pressed his face into Gabe's bare shoulder, up high where the blanket didn't cover it. "Asshole. I don't know why I love you."

"Fuck you, I am lovable. I don't know why Zoey likes you so much."

"She has good taste," Tyson said. The alcohol and the fatigue of playing a full twenty-two minutes were creeping up on him, and now that he knew Gabe wasn't really angry he was ready to sleep. He used to go home if they were fighting, too irritated at Gabe's face to sleep well when they were in the midst of a snit. When he stopped wanting to, he'd moved in for good.

Eyes closed, he burrowed under the covers fully, trying to be warm. Losing sucked. Fighting with Gabe sucked, picking up a minus two sucked, the food at the place Jamie picked was bland and salty and it sucked. But the day was over, and here was Gabe, and Zoey, and the too-big bed, and Tyson was wise enough now to know what did and didn't matter.

"You still awake?" Gabe said; Tyson tried to rally but he didn't have it in him. "Good night, Tyson. I love you best too."

"I knew it," Tyson mumbled, already half-asleep.

Gabe kissed him near his hairline, inexpert in the dark. "Don't tell Zoey," he said, sounding serious, and Tyson meant to say something back, but between one thought and the next he was asleep.

 

 

He woke up to a wet nose in his ear, attached to Zoey, who stepped on his stomach when he tried to dart away. It hurt—he bounded upright and almost headbutted her, which she interpreted as playful, and licked his open mouth.

"Ew! Down, Zoey! Down!" Zoey bounded off the bed, turned a neat circle around the room and then hopped right back up. Tyson gave up and dove under the covers, attempting to shield his internal organs as she barked and nosed at him, begging him to come out and play.

He suffered for another ten seconds before Gabe came into the room and hauled Zoey off Tyson's prostrate body. "Bed, Zoey," he told her, firmly, in what was essentially his on-ice voice; Zoey whined but followed his command. Tyson peeked out with one eye. Gabe was crouched low, petting her, toothpaste foam all over his mouth. He looked repentant when Tyson glared at him with his single visible eye. "She wanted to wake you up."

"Mission accomplished," he said, "I am up."

Gabe's mouth twitched. Tyson yanked the covers back over his head. It was _too early_ for this, and he had a residual headache from the beer. His mouth tasted foul, both from morning breath and being kissed hello by a dog. The two of them were unbelievable.

"I'm sorry, baby," Gabe said, sitting on the edge of the bed and patting Tyson gently on the ankle. "I should have watched her."

"I was _asleep_ ," Tyson told the mattress. Gabe was definitely laughing at him; Tyson kicked him sharply in the thigh. It accomplished nothing. "Fuck you. Make me breakfast."

For all his faults, Gabe was probably the best person he'd ever dated. Certainly the best person he'd tricked into dating him long-term. Tyson wasn't _surprised_ when he stepped out of the shower and the smell of batter frying permeated the whole house; Gabe was a good boyfriend. But it was a morning skate day, with a flight to Winnipeg in the afternoon, and Gabe's to-do list had to be dauntingly high.

And yet he was making pancakes, singing along to himself as he went. Tyson's heart clenched.

Zoey trotted along at his heels, a step behind him on the stairs, and Gabe looked up when he heard the sound of footsteps on the kitchen tile. He wasn't wearing an apron; there was pancake batter on his sweathirt. "Don't get too excited," he said, at the look on Tyson's face, "They're oatmeal. Nutrionist approved."

Oatmeal or no, Tyson shoved him up against the fridge and kissed him soundly. Gabe wouldn't let him pull away, either, keeping him caught even when they broke apart for air. Tyson had no complaints. "You didn't have to."

"I like making breakfast," Gabe said. Gabe was a useless cook, because he'd been spoiled badly as a baby prodigy. Before they moved in together, Gabe could make two meals, one of which was pancakes. The other was meat on a grill. He had since added baked salmon to his roster. Tyson appreciated him, appreciated that Gabe had tried to learn to make his favorite meals, but Tyson could make great salmon in his sleep. Gabe couldn't.

"Don't you have to be in early to meet with Altitude?"

Shrugging, Gabe finally let Tyson go, rescuing the pancakes before they burned. "I don't have to leave for a little while."

Tyson sat at the island, and Zoey sat down on his feet, a living blanket that kept his toes warm. Gabe watched him pet Zoey out of the corner of his eyes, still slightly jealous but mostly fond.

"If this is what happens every time I go out with Jamie, I better start doing it more often," Tyson joked. Gabe scowled at him.

"Don't even think about it."

As the pancakes crisped, Gabe slid them from the frying pan into a baking dish warming in the oven. Tyson whined, but Gabe wouldn't budge. "They'll be better if you wait six more minutes," he insisted, immune to Tyson's pleading eyes. "You're so fucking dramatic."

"I'm so fucking _hungry_. Come on, Gabe, I'm wasting away over here."

Rolling his eyes, Gabe slipped him one silver dollar pancake to tide him over. "I can't believe you," he said, being incredibly dramatic in his own way, fussing over the one single pancake that Tyson ate with his hands in two quick bites. "I can't believe myself, either, that I'm going to ask you this."

"Ask me what?" Tyson said. He fed Zoey a pancake crumb on the sly.

Gabe took a long time to answer. He flipped a pancake carefully, placed it in the oven, and then stood up to his full height. He looked serious, almost grave, the way he never was at home with just the three of them. "Do you want to get married?" he said.

"To you?" Tyson asked idiotically.

Gabe smiled. "Who else would have you?"

Stumped, Tyson racked his brain for their conversation last night. "Did I ask you to marry me last night?"

Gabe laughed, leaning his elbows on the breakfast nook. Tyson, out of habit, grabbed for his hand. "Nope. I mean, it got pretty serious, though. I may have told you I like you more than Zoey."

He was ridiculous. Tyson actually remembered that, that and falling asleep before he could tell Gabe what a dweeb he was. Which was a weird thing to think while being proposed to, but it was true. He'd always liked what a freak Gabe was about Zoey. His mom always said that was a good judge of character: whether people were nice to animals and their parents.

The thought soured his whole morning as soon as it crossed his mind. "Ah," he said, "Um. What about your parents?"

Gabe's smile dropped away like an anvil. "Oh," Gabe said. "Right."

"They'll kill me," Tyson said, entirely without overstateement.

Sighing, Gabe released his hand, turning away so that he could take the frying pan off heat and pull the pancakes out of the oven. "They won't _kill_ you," he said, his back still to Tyson so he couldn't see the incredulity on Tyson's face. Coward. "They'll be mad at _me_ , obviously—"

" _Obviously_."

"—But they'll get over it. Or they won't," Gabe finished, plopping the dish full of pancakes on the island without ceremony. The pancakes were steaming, golden brown and smelled delicious, even if they were technically healthy. Gabe pulled jam and syrup from the fridge, and Tyson reached for it, even though Gabe would tattle on him if he _looked_ at the bottle for too long. "But that's their problem."

Tyson stared at him. There was wishful thinking, and then there was announcing to the universe that Gabe's parents would just have to sit and feel their feelings about Gabe marrying him. _Him_ , the boyfriend they hated.

"Anybody ever tell you you're very optimistic?"

"No." Gabe spread jam on his pancakes like they had wronged him personally. "Are you saying no?"

"No," Tyson said immediately. "I'm not saying _no_ , Jesus, Gabe. Just, you know. Your parents, and my dad's going to be a complete psycho about it, you know he is."

A brief hint of a smile passed over Gabe's mouth, and then he bent his head to his plate, eating the pancakes like they were made of glue. They weren't—Tyson tried them, found them sweet and mostly fluffy, and only a tiny bit liquid in the middle. Pancakes were hard, he didn't begrudge Gabe a few missteps. "These are really good," he said, because they were, and because Gabe still got pink when Tyson complimented his cooking. But the blush was short-lived, too.

Sighing, Tyson put down his fork. "Look," he said, reaching for Gabe's hand. "I'm not saying no. I'm not insane, Gabe, I'd be crazy to say no to you. I'm just saying, how? How do we do this?"

"Well, usually, there's a party," Gabe said snippily. "I don't _know_ , Tyson. I wasn't saying let's do this tomorrow. I just wanted to know what you thought of it."

"Oh." He sat back. "But like... it's still true, right? Your parents are still going to hate me if we do this in a year or two."

"They don't hate you," Gabe lied, with the willful blindness of someone who'd been hoping his parents would stop hating Tyson and wasn't ready to accept that they would not. Not unless Tyson renounced his Canadian citizenship and swore a blood oath to move to Stockholm after retirement. And got a personality transplant. Maybe not even then—Gabe swore it wasn't a gay thing, but it was definitely a him, Tyson Barrie thing.

They'd been really great parents right up to the moment they stopped; Tyson used to really like them. They'd met several times and treated him kindly, until he was the boyfriend, at which point they stopped recognizing his existence. It was profoundly disorienting that when they called Gabe now, they referred to him as _that boy_ in Swedish. (The translation wasn't exact, but Gabe winced when Tyson asked him about it.)

Before this moment and this question, Tyson and Gabe had planned no farther than next summer. Nothing serious—this far out, they were both too superstitious to schedule anything concrete, especially before June—but they knew they wanted to spend the off-season together. Tyson had a dozen idle plans for them: he wanted to show Gabe the places he loved, the island and LA, to introduce him to his summer friends. That Gabe wanted to go further and commit to the rest of their lives sounded awesome. It sounded like more of the same, his favorite person, forever.

But his parents. Tyson didn't know what to say; Gabe's parents _did_ hate him, and they _would_ make an unholy stink if Gabe married him. And despite that, Gabe loved them, so they were at an impasse.

"They really fucking hate me," Tyson said. "I'm just saying. They wish I was dead."

"Would you just—" Gabe put his silverware down and stood up for a second, and then sat again. He ran his fingers through his hair, messing up where he'd carefully styled it. "Look. I don't care that your dad's going to be a psycho. What's he going to do, make me sign a pre-nup?"

"Probably," Tyson said mournfully. Who knew _what_ his dad was capable of.

"Fine, whatever," Gabe said dismissively. "And if my family's going to be terrible, they're going to be terrible. I can't make decisions based on that."

"I just don't want you to make a decision you'll regret."

Gabe's mouth fell open, exposing his immaculate fake teeth, and then he shut it with a snap. "Okay," he said. He stood up and grabbed the warming dish, and he dumped it on the counter. One of the pancakes bounced out of the dish and onto the floor; Zoey snatched it before either of them could stop her. "What a thing to say."

"I didn't mean you'd regret _me_ ," Tyson objected. "I meant—you can't piss off your parents forever, man!"

Gabe ignored him and dumped all the dirty dishes in the sink, turning the hot water on so high the faucet hissed. "Just sit there and eat your pancakes," he said, back to Tyson, tension written in every clenched muscle in his spine.

" _Fuck_ the pancakes," Tyson said. It made Gabe startle and then laugh. The laugh started out genuine but got shaky at the end, and he put his face in his hands. Tyson got up so fast he knocked his stool over. "Quit being so fucking overdramatic, Gabriel." That got a _real_ laugh out of Gabe, big and bright, and then Gabe punched him in the arm.

"Those pancakes were a gesture, you asshole."

"I was being _romantic_ ," Tyson complained. "Like, fuck breakfast right now because you're upset. Not like, fuck your super nice gesture."

"But fuck the stool, eh?"

"I'll get it later," he said, unrepentant. (More likely he'd forget.) He waited until Gabe finally looked at him before adding, "And I wasn't saying it'd be a mistake."

"No?"

"No, Gabe. I'm in love with you, our life is fucking awesome. But even if they're totally irrational and crazy, they're your parents. I don't want you to be upset, not when you don't have to be."

Gabe pushed the hair back off his face and then turned the water on low, rinsing out the mixing bowl slowly and steadily. Tyson waited alongside him, grabbing the utensils Gabe had used and handing them to him. Only when Gabe was done rinsing and opened the dishwasher to load it did he speak again.

"I've always wanted to get married," Gabe said, looking down at his hands and the dishes going away.

"I know," Tyson said. "Me too."

"Do you want kids?"

Not anytime soon, but... "Yes," Tyson said carefully, "Just. You know. Maybe when we're retired. Moving around sucks when you're a kid."

That made Gabe smile his softest smile, the one Tyson had first seen when they'd been in Miami together, drunk at a hotel patio bar and both swaying in closer than they should have. Tyson had told him some incredibly embarrassing story about making a romantic gesture for someone who'd ended up breaking his heart, and he'd had to smother his blush in his hands. When he looked up, Gabe was moving drunk and languid, too slow to wipe the tender smile off his face.

Now, Gabe smiled that sweet smile and then reached out to lace his fingers with Tyson's. He didn't even dry his hand off on his pants; Tyson knew this love was the real thing because hey, that was fucking rude. Gabe had broken him down, left him defenseless. He found he didn't mind it.

"I like that idea," Gabe said. Tyson shivered, and then he reeled Gabe in, until he had his arms around Gabe's back, the good solid strength of his shoulders and spine. "That's a good plan."

Tyson kissed him sloppily. Gabe allowed him for a second, and then pushed him back a half-step. "You're going to make me late," he said, both a compliment and a rebuff.

"That's the idea," Tyson said, squeaking when Gabe shoved him away. "You are such a tease, Gabe!"

"How is it my fault you get worked up in half a second?" Laughing, Gabe cleared the rest of the table and Tyson, grudgingly, helped. He even promised to scrub the frying pan by hand, so as not to damage the non-stick. (For someone with such abysmal cooking skills, Gabe had a lot of opinions about cookware.) "You have to start getting ready for practice. And take Zoey out. And pack for Winnipeg."

"I don't want to pack for Winnipeg," he said, putting his half-eaten pancake plate in the microwave to sit for a while. No way in hell was he letting fresh romantic pancakes go to waste. "Come on. We have time for handjobs, at least."

Gabe kissed him to get him to shut up, which Tyson knew he did and didn't object to. He was happy to make out against the dishwasher for a few minutes, but this was important—so when Gabe said, "I really need to get ready for this Altitude meeting," punctuating his statement with closed-mouth kisses, Tyson was ready. He caught Gabe by the sleeve of his batter-stained sweatshirt and held him there.

"We can figure this out," he said. "Your parents, I mean."

Gabe looked at him, maybe wary, maybe annoyed. "I just don't want to this to be difficult," he said, voice quieter than Tyson had expected. "They're my _parents_."

Oh, how Tyson sympathized—oh, how uniquely difficult they had been to him in particular. But instead of saying that, he nodded and clasped Gabe's hand gently. "Yeah. And we'll figure it out."

"After my meeting," Gabe said, which was his way of passive-aggressively reminding Tyson of the time. Tyson let go of him and threw his hands up.

"Yes, _after your meeting_. Jesus, Gabe," he called down the hallway as Gabe went upstairs to get his gear and get dressed, "I'm not trying to Skype your mom at one in the morning Sweden time!"

From upstairs, Gabe's voice wafted down: "It's eight hours ahead, not eight hours back!"

The worst part was Tyson actually knew that. "I knew that!"

"Sure you did!"

He glared up through the ceiling at where their bedroom might roughly be, hoping that Gabe got tangled in his infinite number of neutral colored sweaters and stuck there.

Zoey followed him into the hall, detouring into the living room before coming back with a bright red ball. She dropped it onto Tyson's socked foot. He looked down at it, then over at her, sitting there wagging her tail with boundless canine joy.

"We'll go out in a minute, girl," he said, retrieving the ball and pocketing it. Zoey's eyes followed the move, but her head twitched when the ball didn't reappear. "Why don't you go upstairs and bother your dad, huh? Really get under his feet, that's a good girl."

It took some gentle shoving to get her going upstairs, especially since Tyson didn't go with her, but after a minute she bounded up the last few stairs and into the bedroom. Tyson could tell because he could hear Gabe saying in a muffled voice, "Zoey! Off—get off the bed!"

But he was definitely laughing, and Zoey barked her playful bark. Tyson grinned to himself, listening to the cadence of Gabe's words and Zoey's disorderly sounds, and then headed back to the kitchen to eat his pancakes.

 

 

"What?" Nate asked, for the dozenth time. Tyson hadn't thought the story was _that_ exciting; if any part was genuinely surprising, it was the part where Gabe had asked him to marry him. But Nate was stuck on the end, when Gabe left for his Altitude meeting and Tyson ate breakfast alone.

"He makes good pancakes, I didn't want them to go to waste," Tyson said, shrugging. Nate gave him the stink eye, but in little single-second fragments so he could keep his attention on the road. "What?"

"You're just, weirdly calm, dude," Nate said. "Like, Landy proposed and you told him no and you're like, chill."

"I didn't say no." He hadn't. He'd specifically said he was not saying no. Tyson's normal move in relationships was to pretend that he couldn't commit, hockey and serious relationships just weren't compatible, but with Gabe he had jumped head-first. They'd dated for real, no hooking up and avoiding each other, and then they actually _planned_ how to move in together. They had downloaded a roommate checklist and divided up furniture and everything.

"You didn't say yes, though," Nate pointed out, merging onto I-25 at least ten miles per hour too fast for the road conditions. Nate had started driving him to and from practice when Tyson moved in with Gabe; Tyson would have preferred to drive, but sacrifices had to be made. "I've never proposed to anybody but I'm pretty sure not saying yes is basically saying no."

"Don't be dumb," Tyson said with confidence he didn't feel. A seed of doubt started to push tender green roots of worry into his ribcage. "He knows I wouldn't say no. Am I or am I not embarrassingly in love with the guy?"

Nate sighed. He was; everybody knew it.

"His parents would _freak_."

"Brutes, you wouldn't have to marry his parents."

"No shit. But they're his parents and you only get one family."

"But if it wasn't for his parents being like that, you would want to marry him?"

"Well, yeah," Tyson said. Nate turned away from the road for a full three seconds, shaking his head at Tyson in a look of equal parts pity and disgust.

He sat with that, thinking it over, as Nate merrily took the interstate curves at high speeds. It was probably bad that he hadn't said that out loud yet. He _did_ want to marry Gabe, even if the idea of standing up and saying vows under the vengeful eyes of Gabe's parents made his stomach squirm. He loved Gabe, loved their house, loved their dog. Gabe was home.

"But," Tyson said, always eager to hang himself with any given length of rope, "What am I supposed to do about his family? I don't even think they'd come to the wedding."

Nate shrugged and changed lanes to take them off the interstate, into the city. "Maybe let Gabe handle them," he said. "He's the one that knows them best."

Even if that were true, it didn't feel true, not anymore. Gabe had been unprepared for his parent's vitriolic reaction to Tyson, and he still didn't have his bearings around them.

It started to snow as they drove through Tyson's neighborhood, fat, powdery flakes that wouldn't coat the roads. They fell lazily as Nate pulled into the driveway and parked. In the front window, Zoey was keeping guard over the neighborhood. When she saw Tyson step out of Nate's Range Rover, she started dancing with happiness.

He tossed his bags onto the front porch and came back to hug Nate. Nate pretended he didn't like it, but he clutched onto Tyson just as hard as Tyson did to him. When they pulled back, there were snowflakes all down Nate's shirt. "Gross," he said, nonsensically, brushing them off onto the ground. "You got me wet."

"Thanks for listening, Mack," Tyson said, punching him in the arm. Nate punched him back.

"What the fuck, I always listen," he said, shutting the door and smiling one of his weird, half-secret smiles. As if he thought Tyson didn't know how soft he was. Tyson knew, all right. Tyson had suffered through a bunch of breakups and the worst season in team history and even a disastrous platonic crush on Crosby that Crosby thought was romantic—he'd let Nate down gently and Nate was so embarrassed that he'd had to come to LA and hide from him.

Tyson waved from the porch as Nate reversed down the driveway and onto the street with little regard for his own life. From the other side of the door, Zoey was making a racket. "I'm coming, Zoey," he said, fumbling for his keys. She burst out onto the porch the moment he cracked the door and ran around his legs in dizzying circles.

"Inside, Zoey, come on," he said. Gabe had trained her well, and she always listened, but she had her own mischeivous personality. She ran into the house for a half second and then darted back out again, nearly tripping Tyson headlong. "Zoey! Couch!" he yelled, laughing and tripping and being slobbered on. Somehow they managed to stumble inside.

They made lunch together—leftover turkey meatballs and some kind of prepackaged salad for Tyson, organic dog food for Zoey. Gabe had lingered at the rink to discuss the fit of his chest protector, and then he was taking one of the Eagles call-ups to lunch, to pep-talk him for tomorrow's game; he wouldn't be back until it was nearly time to go to the airport. That suited Tyson fine—he had to call his financial advisor and talk about his taxes, and then pack for Winnipeg. It was not a good idea for Gabe to be around as Tyson packed; he had too many opinions about the way he folded clothes.

Zoey finished her food and then came to lie down on the tile floor next to his feet. She looked at his meatballs almost disinterestedly, like she wouldn't mind one but wasn't prepared to beg for it. Tyson knew he was an easy mark, but he gave her one anyway. "Just us this afternoon," he told her. "We can do whatever we want. We can take a nap on the bed together, would you like that? Your dad's not around to yell at us."

She put her head down on her paws, blinking up at him with her trusting brown eyes.

He took her out first, walking her down the snowy sidewalk with his hands jammed into his coat pockets. (Eight years he'd lived in Denver, and he still sucked at admitting when it was cold enough for gloves.) She bit at snowflakes and investigated every mailbox in the neighborhood. It was a nice afternoon, despite the snow; a couple of kids were out in their yards, playing in the snow. They waved at Zoey and Tyson waved back, feeling oddly pleased. Gabe had picked a nice neighborhood. When he bought it, his only stipulation was a big yard for Zoey, but it was a beautiful part of town, full of families and interesting architecture and people who said hello as they passed. Also, nobody seemed to care that _Gabe Landeskog_ lived in the big house in the middle of the block; they certainly hadn't batted an eye when Tyson moved in.

When they got back to the house, he had to go through a whole process of wiping Zoey's damp feet with a towel. Gabe insisted on this ("She'll track dirt, Tys"), but Zoey hated the whole process. She communicated her displeasure by licking at his mouth and then sulking on the couch. Tyson left her to it. Gabe made him do a bunch of dumb shit he didn't like, too. He could sympathize.

One of those things was packing in a timely fashion. Tyson had been getting better, even before they started dating, but this was one of the things he'd decided to concede on to avoid arguments. Another was calling his damn financial planner. Tyson had always had one, because his dad had made him get one, but he'd never really worried about his money—since signing his big contract he'd bought almost nothing apart from his house and dumb vacations. Gabe had convinced him to actually talk to the guy. He could admit that it was smarter, but it sucked.

He called Jerry as he packed. (Multitasking boring phone calls had been such a revelation he'd called Nate the moment it occurred to him.) "Hey Ty," Jerry said, making Tyson wince. "How've you been? Team doing okay? You ready to go over your financials for the year?"

"I got the paperwork in front of me," Tyson lied, balling up some socks and sticking them in his suitcase. That was all Jerry needed; he could drone monotonously about money at will, and all Tyson had to do was jump in occasionally with a "yes" or "no." No, he didn't plan to sell the house just yet—he was thinking of letting some combination of Kerfy, Josty and J.T. live there, as long as they paid a hefty security deposit. No, he didn't have any idea if or when contract negotiations would be, or what they'd look like when they did. Yes, he was happpy with the retirement accounts right now.

"Jerry," Tyson said, interrupting the list of tax write-offs he was entitled to, "What would happen if I got married?"

Jerry paused. "Are congratulations in order?"

"No," he said. "I mean—I'm just thinking about it."

"It would be good." Tyson sat down on the bed, in the middle of his clothes and toiletries and random gear, his breath flooding out of him and leaving him slack. Jerry clarified, "Well, from a tax perspective, anyway."

"Yeah," Tyson said, and Jerry changed the subject to interest deductions, but he didn't for a moment stop thinking about the way he'd said it. _It would be good_.

When Gabe came home, Tyson's bags were stacked in a neat pile by the stairs. He heard Gabe enter the hall and discover them, his delighted laughter ringing through the house. Tyson smiled but stayed where he was. Zoey was lazing next to him on the couch, her head nuzzled against his shoulder—he couldn't disturb her. She pricked her ears at the sound of Gabe's boots in the hallway, but she waited until he came into the room to bounce off Tyson and into Gabe's arms.

"Hey you." Gabe knelt and let her lick his chin, rebuffing her attempts to get at his mouth and cheeks. "You napping with Tyson, Zoey? You keeping him company?"

"She was keeping me warm," Tyson said. Gabe was flushed and pink-cheeked from the cold, and when he stood he held Zoey in his arms like a baby, albeit a giant, wriggling, four-legged baby. Tyson's stomach flipped for the thousandth time: at Gabe's strength, at his goodness, at his devastatingly handsome smile. "Bring her back."

"We're coming." He bent low first, to kiss the corner of Tyson's mouth, and then sat on the other cushion. Zoey squirmed out of his arms and put her paws on Tyson's legs to pant into his face. "Off, Zoey," Gabe said, laughing and tugging her back by the collar, "Lie down. That's a good girl, Zoey."

They compromised—Zoey laid down on her back with her head smushed into Tyson's thigh and her back feet in Gabe's lap. That way, they could both stroke her belly, which made her tail wag in glee. Tyson tried to figure out a way that they could pet her and hold hands, but it was impossible.

"Hi," Gabe said simply. Tyson reached over and kissed him again. "You packed."

"It's been known to happen," Tyson said. He liked the pleased satisfaction in Gabe's expression, even as it gave way to an eye roll. "How was lunch?"

"Good. We talked about playing at the NHL level, handling the pressure. He's gonna be fine." Shrugging, Gabe let his head fall back against the cushions. Eyes closed, his face began to smooth out, like he might just fall asleep here. Tyson would have liked that; they had time before they had to leave for the airport. The three of them could curl up and nap and let the snow fall silently on the roof.

But Gabe had to pack, and they had to get things ready for Zoey's dogsitter. So he leaned in and kissed Gabe on the cheekbone, right where his freckles started. "Don't fall asleep," he said, the words getting lost when Gabe reoriented to catch his mouth. "You'll hurt your neck like that."

"Don't be so bossy," Gabe said, and Tyson responded by biting him on the jaw. Then he bit the high curve of Gabe's throat, and Gabe made a noise that offended Zoey so badly she jumped off the couch. Tyson hadn't meant to scare her off, but he was hardly going to turn down extra room to work with. Wasting no time, he climbed onto Gabe's lap.

"Desperate much?" Gabe said, already breathless, his hands like vises on Tyson's hips.

"Do you _ever_ shut up," Tyson said, and smothered his retort with his mouth.

It turned into a slow, devastating makeout session, hot enough that Gabe's fingers kept slipping on the bare skin of his back. Tyson ground down against Gabe, satisfied when Gabe bit his lip savagely in retaliation. They didn't have time, but Tyson enjoyed pretending that they did. He buried his fingers in Gabe's hair and lost himself in the kiss.

"Hey," he said, when a thought occured to him. Thoughts were always occuring to him, and Gabe was used to him interrupting when they fooled around. "I don't know if I said this, before, but—you know I want to marry you, right?"

Gabe blinked at him from close range, mouth pulled down into a frown. "What do you mean?"

"Come on, Gabe," Tyson admonished him. He traced his thumb down Gabe's spine, from his hairline to his topmost vertebra, his second or third favorite part of Gabe's body. "I want to. I just want to be realistic here."

"Tyson," Gabe said, sounding tired of this conversation, "I _really_ don't want to hear all the reasons why we shouldn't get married."

"But it's a good reason," Tyson argued. He had broken up with people (or dared them into breaking up with him) for much stupider reasons; he'd never let anyone get this close. And Gabe wasn't just anyone. The life they had built—not just their careers and the team, but this house, that used to be Gabe's but now was _theirs_ , with its huge front windows and hardwood that squeaked and the insanely domestic neighborhood, and Zoey, and Gabe loving him—that was worth preserving.

But Gabe didn't like that response; it was clear from the unhappy twist of his mouth. "Jesus, Tys."

He extricated himself from Tyson, getting up and leaving Tyson to slide onto the sofa gracelessly. "Gabe," Tyson called, stomach lurching. "Come on, man."

Gabe ignored that. "Did you take Zoey out on a walk today?"

"Of course, I took her out as soon as I got back from practice."

"Good." He still wasn't looking at Tyson as he marched out of the room. "I'm going to pack. Don't forget to get her stuff ready for her sitter."

Tyson followed him. Before Gabe could go sulk upstairs, Tyson caught him by the ankle as he went by. Not hard—he didn't want to hurt him, or even scare him. Gabe hesitated, but he stopped. He looked hurt, and his shoulders were slumping with the kind of exhaustion that Tyson associated with long practices and dismal scores.

For a moment, Tyson was blindingly furious at Gabe's parents, who were in Sweden and who hadn't even heard about the maybe-engagement but were already ruining everything. It wasn't fucking fair. All Tyson had ever done was try to be good to Gabe, and for the most part, he was succeeding. He knew he was. If Gabe's parents couldn't see that, then fuck them.

It didn't work like that. He knew from experience that families were unpredictable and often terrible and non-refundable. "I don't know what to say," Tyson said, looking up through the bannister at him, "Except that this sucks and I'm sorry."

Gabe pursed his lips. He didn't say anything, just stood there, arms crossed.

"And I love you," Tyson added. Gabe's real smile appeared, like sun from behind clouds. "And I'll stop and get you coffee for the flight, if you want it."

"I do want it," Gabe said. He stepped on Tyson's fingers, not hard, and when Tyson tried to yank his hand away he stepped again. He was trying to be irritating, to cover the fact that he was mad; Tyson didn't say anything, just flicked him in the calf. "You owe me coffee, for being reasonable, which is completely out of character for you."

Then he stomped up the rest of the stairs. Tyson was unsure how mad he was, and how much was anger at him and how much at the shitty situation. If the circumstances were reversed, Tyson would want Gabe to follow him. Even when he was mad at Gabe, he wanted him around. But Gabe was different; Tyson had learned to love Gabe by backing off, at least sometimes. He'd learned to dump his feelings out on Nate or Willy or the Kelowna crew, and he'd learned to trust that Gabe would find him when he was ready.

There were lots of ways to love Gabe. He choked down Gabe's subpar attempts at cooking salmon, and he rarely let Zoey on the bed. He corralled the rookies and paid their bar tabs and would totally let the not-really-rookies live in his house; he did all the things he could to lighten the burden of Gabe's captaincy. He had even embarrassingly come out to his parents at last because he didn't want to have to hide Gabe, and his mom bought and proudly displayed a stocking for Gabe on the family mantelpiece at Christmas. (Gabe had cried in the guest bathroom like a loser, touched beyond words.)

Right now, the best way he knew how to love Gabe was to whistle for Zoey. She hadn't been far away; she never was. She trotted up to him, tail wagging, and sat down expectantly, as if hoping for a walk.

"Let's get your stuff ready for the sitter," he told her. "That'll make your dad happy, won't it?"

She barked. Tyson was happy to take it as agreement.

 

 

To Tyson's surprise, he opened his hotel door the next morning and Gabe was on the other side of it. It wasn't that late—it was barely 8:30, and team breakfast was at 9:15. Gabe had gone to bed without coming to his room last night, which wasn't unusual, even if it hit a sore spot because of how they'd left things in Denver. Without any other clear reason to see Gabe before breakfast, Tyson naturally concluded he was late. "Shit, is it Daylight Savings Time?"

Gabe seemed to be deciding whether to laugh or look stern; stern won out, but it was close. "Tyson, it's February. Don't you know when Daylight Savings Time starts?"

He did not, and Gabe knew it. He let Gabe in, wondering what he'd done; as far as he knew he hadn't fucked up on the team side of things, except maybe egging EJ on to fine G for never reading Harry Potter. (It was a _classic_ , and Sam had to learn.) Gabe didn't seem mad, though. He rolled his eyes at the mess that had exploded out of his suitcase and onto the floor, but stepped neatly over it and sat on the bed. "Come here," he said. His tone made it clear why.

Tyson, thrilled, nearly tripped over the damn suitcase. "Seriously?" he said, wrestling out of his sweatpants. "We never have morning sex."

"You're never awake," Gabe pointed out, helpfully yanking Tyson's shirt over his head. It got stuck for a second—Tyson had to bat Gabe away to unhook it from his shoulders. "You always want to have late morning sex."

"Brunch is obviously better than breakfast, Gabriel," Tyson said. Gabe, taken aback, stared at him with an expression of wonder. It wasn't the good kind; it was the why-am-I-deigning-to-sleep-with-you kind. Rather than defend himself, Tyson shoved Gabe backwards and straddled him. Gabe was grinning as Tyson leaned in to kiss him. As a distraction, it wasn't subtle, but it was definitely successful.

One of the things he loved most about Gabe was that Gabe believed in manhandling as an essential part of foreplay. Without breaking their kiss, he flipped them, leaving Tyson sprawled on his back. Tyson shivered and reached up, burying his fist in Gabe's thick hair and yanking him where he wanted him to go. Gabe listened—Gabe always listened. Tyson loved that too, loved everything about him.

"Wait," he said, lying back as another rogue thought occurred to him. "Are you still mad at me?"

"I'm not mad at _you_ ," Gabe said. He sounded mad, though; his voice was coiled tight with frustration. "I'm mad at the whole fucked-up situation. Come on, Tys, do you want to talk about our feelings or do you want to have sex?”

A younger Tyson might have been fooled, but now he was old and wise and knew how to prioritize. "Sex first," he said, going for Gabe's pants, "Feelings later."

Gabe rolled his eyes but they both knew Tyson would get his way, on both topics.

It took _forever_ for Gabe to finally kick his sweats and boxers off. When he did, Tyson slid out from under him and down to the floor. Gabe watched reverently as Tyson took him into his mouth. Feeling confident, Tyson took him deep; Gabe rewarded him by nearly choking him with an ill-timed thrust.

Betrayed, Tyson coughed into his hand and glared up with watery eyes. "Sorry," Gabe said, cradling Tyson's jaw in his hands. His thumbs brushed away the rogue tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. He was _such_ a sap. "You're too good at that."

"Flattery won't work on me," Tyson lied, and then went back down on him before Gabe could call him on it.

It didn't take long, because they didn't have long; besides, Tyson knew what Gabe liked. Gabe liked him to focus on the head, and to pull on his hair, which he was allowed to do so long as he didn't choke Tyson to death with his dick. He liked a constant rhythm and he liked his balls played with right at the end. Most of all, he liked to to be held after he came, and he wasn't embarrassed about it either.

Obligingly, Tyson wiped his hand on the bedspread and rejoined Gabe on the bed. In his languid post-orgasm state, Gabe was more or less useless, but he summoned enough energy to fling his arms over Tyson and say, " _Wow_."

Tyson preened. It was always good between them, but it was extra fun to make Gabe useless and clingy like that. He could be patient. He kissed along Gabe's jaw, the high ridge of his cheekbone, and then his mouth. Gabe kissed back and ground his lower stomach against Tyson's hard dick. "You're so good to me," he slurred, his accent more pronounced than ever. "You're so good at _that_."

"I know," Tyson said. He was enjoying the friction of Gabe's abs against his dick, but he wasn't seventeen anymore. "You wanna lend me a hand?"

"One more minute and I'll blow you." He laughed when Tyson's dick jumped, and he laughed harder when Tyson blushed. "Sit up against the headboard, come on."

They kissed some more, and then Gabe sucked his dick until he came. Even though they'd burned through most of the eight o'clock hour, they without words decided to cuddle in a sweaty heap, Gabe's leg crossed over Tyson's hip, Tyson's face against Gabe's collarbone. He could just see the alarm clock over Gabe's shoulder; they had a little time. And if Gabe was late to breakfast, who cared? It's not like they could start without him.

"Why don't we have sex in hotels more?" Tyson wondered aloud. "We don't even have to change the sheets."

"Some poor maid has to, though," Gabe said. That was true, but Tyson didn't want to admit it; instead he kissed the smooth underside of Gabe's jaw. Gabe had shaved before coming over. Tyson had no desire to go through team breakfast and morning skate with beard burn, but he missed the pleasant itch of Gabe's stubble. If they'd been at home, Gabe would have kissed him before he went to shave. Maybe home was better than a hotel.

Gabe's fingers were moving slowly through his hair, behind the curve of his ear. He was loose and calm, and Tyson figured it was as good a time as any to ambush him. "So," he said, "Are you still angry at me?"

The soothing pass of his fingers stopped. "I thought maybe you'd forget to ask me about that."

"Come on Gabe. You blew my mind, you're a sex god, but that was like, a minute ago." Tyson refused to sit up, refused to unstick himself from Gabe a moment before it was necessary, but he did lean back and crane his neck up at him. Gabe was watching the blank beige ceiling do nothing at all. "I think I can tell when you're mad at me."

"But I'm not _angry_ ," Gabe said. He wouldn't drag his gaze away from the ceiling. "I'm just fucking disappointed. And maybe..."

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe I'm sad," he said.

Tyson sat up. He didn't want to, but he wanted to see every inch of Gabe's face. Gabe kept looking up, and his mouth was a tight slash across his face. "Hey," Tyson said, touching him on the shoulder, "You get to feel however you want, man, but I don't want you to be sad."

"You're not sad." Tyson didn't say anything, just stared at him in confusion until he huffed and sat up too. "You don't _seem_ sad. Do you even want to get married? Really?"

Tyson nearly said the first thing that came to mind, which was, _don't be fucking stupid, of course I do_. Instead, he opened and shut his mouth like a goldfish, and then he folded his hands. It took him a while to put his words together. "I do want that. I want it with you. I just—I want you in whatever way works, you know?"

At last, Gabe lowered his eyes and looked at Tyson. He had a way of staring at him intently, searching his face, that reminded Tyson of the time right before they got together—both desperately wanting to make a move, both terrified of the risk. It had gone on like that for weeks, before Gabe confessed his feelings and Tyson went in for the kiss, weeks of quiet, desperate, unsubtle pining. Gabe looked at him now in that same way: like he was something worth having, something Gabe was afraid he wouldn't get to keep.

"Okay," he said slowly. He reached for Tyson's hand and squeezed their fingers together. "That makes sense to me."

"Really?" Tyson said. A knot in his stomach loosened. "That simple?"

"Don't try to talk me out of it," Gabe said, edging towards grumpy. "I said it makes sense."

Tyson kissed him, in wordless gratitude. Since he was on a roll of being mature today, he resisted the urge to crowd Gabe back onto the sheets so they could make out until they were late. Instead, he climbed off the bed. Behind him, Gabe made a wordless noise of disbelief.

"What?" Tyson said. He tossed Gabe his pants. "I don't want to go to breakfast covered in your come, Gabe, Jesus."

"You always do this," Gabe said in an aggrieved tone, "You always pretend to have everything together whenever you think I'm upset."

Tyson turned around to look at him, sitting on the edge of the bed, his beautiful blond hair fluffed up in the back and the scowl on his face lethal to its core. He was ridiculous, and he had a small hickey on his collarbone that Tyson would definitely catch some shit for. Tyson was annoyed to find that he wasn't annoyed with him, was only desperately full of love.

"I don't know, Gabe. I just love you," he said, "A lot."

Gabe's scowl softened. An _utter_ sap.

"Come on." Tyson tossed Gabe's clothing, or at least the pieces he could find, at him. "You want to shower together? We have 17 minutes til breakfast, and you probably should be there. You don't want EJ trying to stage a rebellion, making a play for the C."

"We can shower if you keep your hands to yourself," Gabe said, business-like now that he was sliding into captain mode, one eye on the clock as it ticked towards Late. "Otherwise I'm telling Bednar to bench your ass."

"You wouldn't," Tyson said to his retreating back. Gabe, who absolutely would not, no matter what he said, sent Tyson a come-hither grin over his shoulder that completely undermined his threats. Tyson, resigned, followed him. Having sex in the shower would hardly be the dumbest reason he'd ever been scratched.

 

 

They won the game in Winnipeg, which confused and alarmed the media and filled Tyson with a vicious, sparkling satisfaction that nothing could dampen. Not even EJ deciding, on the short, frigidly cold walk from the stadium to the bus, that he needed to get Nate drunk. "You scored the _gamewinner!_ " he kept yelling over the howling wind. Nate didn't want to—he hated drinking on planes, wouldn't even drink on the plane home from Worlds in 2015 after they won gold—but the team was in high spirits and Nate was an A. Somehow he talked himself into it, and they arrived in Denver with half the team tipsy and Nate three sheets to the wind.

Tyson was doomed from the minute Nate took his first shot. "I gotta drive him home," he said to Gabe, shivering in the wind as Gabe loaded their shit into his car. "He drove Willy. Also he drank all the shots EJ poured for me." EJ had tried, not nearly as hard, to poison Tyson too, because Tyson had gotten the primary assist on Nate's goal. Since Nate had already committed to a roaring hangover, he obligingly took both of Tyson's shots. (Then he spent the last hour bragging about what a great best friend he was, which took some of the magic out of the gesture.)

Gabe stowed the last of his and Tyson's gear in the trunk and shut it. "Okay," he said, shrugging. "You'll be home soon? I'm sure Zoey missed you."

"She missed you too, dumbass," Tyson said. As a rule, they didn't kiss in front of the team—especially not the full team, with the trainers and staff and coaches and the beat reporters—but it was dark and Tyson decided to risk it.

"What was that for?" Gabe asked, sounding pleased. He looked so cute in his overcoat and his fancy scarf, bundled up against the cold. Tyson couldn't wait to get home to him.

"Nothing," he said. "Don't wait up for me. I love you."

When he found Nate's car, he found Nate leaning up against the passenger door, playing with the handle, while Willy put their gear in the trunk. "What's up," Nate said gravely, looking just past his ear, "You good to drive, bro?"

"Yes I'm good to drive," Tyson said, rolling his eyes. "Why didn't you help Willy?"

"He told me not to." Nate pouted and stuck his bare fingers on the icy glass. He was fucking useless; he almost never drank, because Crosby didn't drink during the season and he still copied most everything that Sid did. Tyson appreciated it more when he wasn't the one who had to schlep him home to bed. Where was Factor when you needed him? "I tried to help."

"He did," Willy said. "He wasn't good at it." He shut the trunk much less competently than Gabe had, and when Tyson walked around to check, it was ajar, the lock caught on a clump of ice. Tyson brushed it clear and then bundled his loser best friends into Nate's car, eager to get inside and get warm.

"This is bullshit," Nate said a minute later. His head was against the window, bobbling gently as the car rolled over the freshly gritted road. "Why aren't you drunk, Tys? EJ poured you all those shots."

"He didn't drink them, you did." Willy hiccupped. Drunk Willy was essentially as pleasant and tractable as sober Willy, for which Tyson was very grateful. Nate vacillated between extremes, and he seemed to have settled on irritated tonight. He kept huffing every time his forehead smacked the glass but made no move to sit up straight. Tyson knew he was an elder statesman of the team and all, but this was ridiculous. He could have been halfway home to his dog and the love of his life, and instead he was wrangling drunk teammates.

He was going to _kill_ EJ at practice tomorrow.

"I'm disappointed in you, man," he told Willy, watching him in the rearview mirror. "You can't hold your liquor? Shame on you."

"Gabe said it was okay," Willy said, but he looked crestfallen.

Nate bleated out a laugh and forced his body to turn around so he could look at Willy in the backseat. "Gabe," he said, very seriously, "Asked Tyson to marry him."

Tyson briefly considered running the car off the road.

"Whoah, Tys, congratulations," Willy said, clapping Tyson on the upper arm. Most likely he'd been aiming for the shoulder. "That's so cool. I love Landy. He's like my favorite captain. Oh shit, don't tell Webs."

"Ah," Tyson said. He stared out into the lights of oncoming traffic, not knowing what to say. His other thought was that Gabe would be touched when he heard that he was Willy's favorite captain; Tyson couldn't wait to tell him. "I don't—well. I don't know if we're getting married."

"Tyson said no," Nate stage-whispered.

"I didn't say no! I said—it's complicated."

"How so?"

He hesitated. Nate and Willy were pretty drunk, especially Nate, so it was unclear if they'd even remember this, but he felt disloyal saying it just the same. "You know how Gabe's parents hate me?" Willy nodded, and Nate definitely knew—Nate knew all about the drama of Gabe coming to Tyson's parents for Christmas because his parents refused to visit. "Well, yeah. I don't think he's going to want to marry me if it'll make his parents hate him."

Nobody said anything right away. Nate was breathing through his open mouth and the Range Rover's engine hummed smoothly underfoot, but nobody said anything and so Tyson had to face up to the truth. It wasn't just that he didn't want to get between Gabe and his family; he didn't want to give Gabe a reason to pick his shitty family over him.

"But that's like, dumb," Willy said. Nate's head whipped around so fast he banged his cheek against the headrest.

"That's what I said!"

"Everyone stop yelling," Tyson said, "And it's not dumb. He loves his parents, even though they fucking suck. Even his brother's kind of a dick, to be honest. But they're his family, what am I supposed to do, make him choose?

"But you're not making him choose," Willy said. He swayed closer, close enough that he felt like a literal angel on Tyson's shoulder, albeit one that reeked of vodka. "They are, and he'd choose you anyway, right? He lives with you."

"Brutes, he wants a family with you," pointed out Nate. That was too far; Gabe had asked him about it once, two days ago, there was no way Nate knew that. But Nate just rolled his eyes. "He moved you into his freaking family homestead, with the fucking, the yard out back, and all the bedrooms, and he shows everybody who fucking comes over the tree in the back."

"He shows people a tree?"

"Oh, the treehouse tree," Willy said with perfect equanimity. "It's a good tree for a treehouse, that's what Gabe says."

Nate turned and leveled him with his best unimpressed stare. Even though he was drunk and Tyson was driving, it worked. Tyson knew exactly which tree they meant, although Gabe had never described it that way. There was a white oak in the southwest corner, with thick branches and just enough space for a decent platform, visible from the kitchen window. A treehouse would be perfect there.

And the house was a good house for kids—it was a good house for just the three of them, but there was room to grow. There was the sloping back yard and wide, carpeted stairs and a sunny second living room they'd never figured out a use for; they'd stuck their second-best TV and an Xbox in there and mostly left it alone. It was obvious, in retrospect, what kind of house Gabe had bought, and why.

His words caught in his throat. "I didn't—I never thought about it that way."

"Do you want that?" Willy asked. "It's okay if you don't."

"I do want that," he said. He did. He wanted all of it, maybe not in Denver and maybe not that soon, but he wanted it. There were good houses in nice neighborhoods in Victoria, and LA, and even Stockholm, if that's what Gabe needed. (Tyson could learn Swedish. Gabe was worth learning Swedish for.) "Shit, you guys. I want all of that. I _want_ to marry him."

"You and Gabe would have a really fun wedding," Nate said. For the first time since stumbling off the plane, he didn't sound annoyed. He sounded almost wistful. "Obviously I'd be the best man. Do you have bridesmaids at a gay wedding, or how do you hook up?"

He couldn't help himself—he laughed.

"We would have a fun wedding," Tyson said, more to himself than either of them. "Gabe would cry. And my dad would be really terrible, and probably give a speech and insult everybody in the room."

"I would give a speech," Nate said sulkily into the glass. He had started pouting again when Tyson laughed at him. "I would give a fucking _awesome_ speech."

Ignoring him, Tyson kept thinking about it. Not just a concept, not just something he _might_ get, but an actual event. His mom would definitely cry. Beach weddings were cheesy but Tyson liked the water and Gabe liked being outside. They could keep it small, just the most important people, or they could go all out, invite every guy they both liked in the NHL and every friend they'd made along the way; at a wedding that big, hardly anyone would notice if Gabe's parents didn't show.

It would suck. It would fucking suck if they didn't come. But Gabe had Bea, and his brother when he wasn't being a dick, and he had a dozen friends he'd known since he was a baby. It wasn't like he'd be alone.

He zoned out thinking about it—one minute they were on the highway, the mountains passing in the far distance, and the next they were in Willy's neighborhood. Tyson left the car running with the heat on for Nate as he helped Willy drag his stuff into his condo elevator; he was surprised but not shocked when Willy threw his arms around him and said, "I'm so happy for you, Tys."

Tyson gently peeled Willy off and swore him to secrecy about the proposal. At least for now. "And drink a bunch of water," he called, as the elevator doors slid shut on Willy's cheerful face. It was even odds whether Willy had heard him, but Willy would be alright. He'd drink some disgusting macrobiotic potion and show up to practice fresh as a daisy.

Nate was another matter. He was half-asleep when Tyson got back into his car, and he swam in and out of consciousness on the five minute drive to his place. When Tyson turned the engine off in front of Nate's house, he merely cracked one eye open. "Where'd Willy go?"

"Bed. Where you should be," Tyson said, unbuckling himself. To save time, he unbuckled Nate's seatbelt too. "Come on, buddy."

Clearly this was payback for the time Tyson nearly died in Paris and Nate had carried him, bleeding profusely and going into shock, into the paramedic's arms. That was the only way Tyson could justify having to drag Nate bodily into his house. "You are blowing all your karma at once," he huffed to Nate, who was insensate and barely upright. Nate had twenty pounds on him, and Tyson felt every one as he hauled Nate across the threshold and dumped him onto his sofa.

Nate's head hit the armrest and bounced. He peered up at Tyson with his eyes open the tiniest amount, just enough to glare. "You're so fucking weak."

"I hate you," Tyson told him. There was a throw blanket (Nate's mom had bought it) and a decorative pillow (free Avs merchandise) on the other sofa; armed with both, Tyson tucked Nate in as best he could. Then he found a trash can and a couple of Gatorades and stacked them near Nate's head. "Please don't die in the night. And please don't show up to practice hungover and get us all bag-skated. I just carried in you here and my back hurts."

Nate's eyes were closed again but his expression seemed repentant—he reached out and grasped at Tyson's hand with clumsy fingers. "You're a good friend, Brutes. And you're overthinking it, y'know? I think you and Gabe are like... really happy together."

"Yeah?" he said, touched despite himself.

"Yup," Nate said. He was smiling now, eyes still closed, clearly mostly unconscious. "Really happy."

Sighing, Tyson adjusted the blanket across Nate's broad chest. He was terrible at drinking and a grumpy, bossy asshole, but he was Tyson's best friend and second-favorite person in the world. And he gave good advice, even when Tyson was being too much of a coward to act on it.

"Good night Nate," Tyson said, and left him there. Nate was already snoring before he closed the door.

He took Nate's car, even though he could have taken an Uber; the trip which he'd expected to take 45 minutes had ballooned to almost an hour and twenty minutes, and he didn't want to wait for a car. He wanted to be home.

He parked behind Gabe's car, in the neat furrows his tires had made through the snow. The wind had died down and the only sound was of his dress shoes crunching on the salted driveway. The light was still on in the front room, probably for Zoey. Gabe would be in bed, asleep, but he'd come out and salted the driveway for him.

When he opened the door, Zoey barked once, but she stopped when Tyson shushed her. He nearly stepped on her as she got underfoot, demanding attention. "Hey baby," he said, as glad to see her as she was to see him. "Who's a good girl? Who's a good girl, waiting up for me?"

She whined and weaved between his ankles, unable to decide which part she wanted Tyson to pet first. He scratched her ears for her, and that seemed to satisfy her. "Is your dad asleep? Let's go to bed too, Zoey. We gotta be up in a few hours for practice, you know."

She didn't know, but she was happy to pretend. He turned out the lights in the front room and then they went up. The familiar sounds of the house greeted him, the furnace clinking in the basement and the distant electrical hum of the fridge. Zoey's nails clicked on the hardwood as she ran in front of him and nudged their bedroom door open.

In their bedroom, Gabe was asleep on his side on the too-big bed, curled up with his back to the door. Zoey looked back at Tyson, poised to jump up there with him; Tyson started to say "No," but she'd already done it. "Lie down Zoey," he said instead, firmly so she could tell he meant it. She nosed at Gabe's knee but did as she was told, curling up at the foot of the bed. In his sleep, Gabe reached for her, stroking her carelessly and mumbling something in Swedish. Zoey licked his fingers and laid her head across his knee, watching Tyson standing in the doorway, clearly waiting for him to come over and complete their little family.

Nate was right; it really was that simple.

He came over and took Gabe by the shoulder and shook him. "Gabe," he said, almost urgent, waiting as Gabe blinked himself awake, remembering where he was and what he was doing. "Hey, listen. I'm sorry for waking you."

Gabe kept blinking, and then he scrubbed his hand over his face, leaving behind a look of sleepy resentment. "You said don't wait up for you," he said, voice hoarse.

"I changed my mind," Tyson said.

"Obviously."

"No, not about that," Tyson said, stopping Gabe from rolling over and going back to sleep. Instead he took both of Gabe's hands and held them in his. "Let's get married."

He sat up, jostling Zoey off his leg. She whined and slunk closer to Tyson, begging for attention. He dropped one of Gabe's hands so he could he pet her, too. "Didn't we just have this conversation, like eighteen hours ago?" Gabe asked. So far, he was curious, not immediately annoyed. "What happened to picking whatever way's best?"

"I had an epiphany."

Gabe squinted at him. "You told Nate and Willy, didn't you." Obviously he had, so Tyson didn't bother responding to that.

"I've been thinking about it like this." The words weren't coming easily, but Gabe didn't rush him. "I'm with you, and I love you. But they're your parents, and I'd never ask you to choose between me and your family. I don't know, maybe I was scared?" He bit the bullet and said the ugly truth out loud. "That if it came down to it, you wouldn't choose me."

"I wouldn't do that," Gabe said, immediately. "Tyson, you know I wouldn't do that."

"I know." He did. Gabe, who had helped powerwash his deck on their third date and had held his hand when he came out to his mom, would never do that. "But I don't want to put you in that position. So I was scared, or stupid, I don't know. But then Nate was saying all this stuff about you and the house and what our wedding would be like, and I realized that it was dumb to be worried about it. Because we're already a family."

Gabe's face was blurred in the half-light from the hallway, but he couldn't have hidden his tender smile from Tyson in total darkness. "Of course we are," he said, and he picked up Tyson's hand and kissed his knuckles. "You and me."

"And Zoey. We're a family. I'm in love with you, and you bought this house for us and the dog and our kids—I know about the treehouse you want to build, by the way." Gabe blushed but didn't deny it, and Tyson had to kiss him then. He had to.

"I didn't buy it for you. I bought it because I liked the yard for Zoey."

"And the treehouse?"

He ducked his head. "It's just... good to be prepared."

"So I don't care if your parents are gonna be terrible. You're already stuck with me, forever. Let's get married."

"That's it? You realized we're in a serious relationship and you're ready to tell my parents to go fuck themselves?"

Under no circumstances would Tyson _ever_ say that to Gabe's parents, who were terrifying, but he was prepared to commit to the sentiment behind it. "I'm ready to tell anybody to go fuck themselves. And by the way," he said, wanting to clear something up, "It's not like I was afraid to commit to you. I just _care_ about you and your relationship with your family, okay."

"You're my family," Gabe said simply.

"Yeah. You, me and Zoey."

"She'd be a really cute ringbearer." There was something wistful in Gabe's tone that suggested that he'd thought about it before. Tyson loved Gabe a lot and was prepared to put up with a lot, but he drew the line at dogs in people clothing.

"No way. We should have a human ringbearer," he insisted. He had a handful of cute second cousins who were the right age and species. Zoey was a perfect dog, but Tyson didn't like the idea of strapping their wedding rings to her back.

"Tys, she'd be perfect," Gabe wheedled.

"If you get to have Zoey as the ringbearer, I get to have Jamie as my best man." He didn't _really_ mean it—he was probably obligated to make Victoria his best woman, and Nate would die a thousand dramatic deaths if Tyson picked Jamie over him—but it was all worth it for how fast Gabe's mouth shriveled up.

"The wedding is off, it's cancelled, no fucking way—"

Tyson knocked him over and shoved his hand up Gabe's shirt, getting him to go from mock-outraged to laughing in seconds. Gabe retaliated by elbowing him in the stomach, and then they were wrestling and in serious danger of falling off the bed. Right as Zoey started to bark and threaten to insert herself in their roughhousing, Tyson decided to pin Gabe and avoid the fuss.

Gabe could say what he liked about Tyson's upper body strength—Tyson was undefeated at wrestling, and it took him no effort to pin Gabe by the wrists. Gabe went limp in Tyson's grip, which was heady and intoxicating, and then he reached up to kiss him. Tyson was only mortal. He surrendered to Gabe's mouth immediately.

Tyson had won gold at Worlds twice, clinched last year's playoff berth at the last possible moment, and of course there'd been the night that Gabe had first slightly undercooked him a salmon and said _I love you_. This, he was pleased to note, was better. He felt fucking boundless, an unlimited capacity for loving Gabe.

After a moment, he summoned his resolve and sat back on his heels. "I'm still waiting on an answer, here, Gabe."

Gabe laid there, breathing hard, looking up at Tyson with the good I-can't-believe-you look. The one that made Tyson feel like a sunrise inside. "Technically I asked you first. And you don't even have a ring or anything." Tyson started to object, of course he would _buy Gabe a ring_ , but Gabe threw his head back and laughed. "Yes, okay? You're so fucking annoying, I hate that I'm in love with you."

"Fucking same," Tyson said, and rather than hear whatever bitchy thing Gabe had to say in response, he kissed him again.

The bed was still much too big, but it felt less vast when they were both as close as this, wrapped up in each other. Gabe gasped into his mouth when Tyson squeezed his wrists, and Tyson realized with a thrill that he'd get to hear that noise forever.

"They're not going to ruin this," Gabe whispered. Tyson tried to ignore him, but Gabe dislodged one hand and used it to drag Tyson to face his gaze. "No, come on. I know what they're like, and I don't know if they're going to freak or if they even want to come. But I'm not going to let them be mean to you."

"I don't care if they're mean to me." He cared a _little_. He still desperately wanted everyone to like him, including Gabe's horrible parents. But that wasn't what he was afraid of. "I care if they're mean to you."

Gabe's hand on his jaw relaxed, but he sounded fierce. "It goes both ways, asshole. Do you let people treat me like shit? No. I'm not going to let them, either. I choose you."

"I'm not asking you to," Tyson said. Gabe shrugged.

"I'd do it anyway."

Tyson didn't say anything—he didn't feel like he could. Gabe colored, fiery red where his beard didn't cover his cheeks, but he didn't look away. He looked straight in Tyson's eye, with that fuck-the-world bravery that Tyson loved.

Tyson shook his head and then laid down on top of Gabe, full-body cuddling him. Zoey was somewhere by the foot of the bed, her warm bulk brushing back up against their feet. Gabe wrapped his arms around him, and yeah. This was home. He was just a dumb hockey player from the island, it didn't make sense that he was this lucky. It didn't make any sense, but he was smart enough not to complain.

"I'm gonna buy you the nicest fucking ring," he said, feeling choked up.

"I'm gonna hold you to that," Gabe said.

Tyson was going to buy him the nicest ring that all that money he hadn't touched could buy. And then he was going to figure out how to build a treehouse, and he was going to build it, with Gabe at his side.

 

 

He woke up early enough that Gabe was still in bed. Near bed, anyway; he was dressed and putting on his socks, but he was sitting on the edge of the bed so it counted. "Good morning," he said with a tender, secret smile that was all Tyson's. "You're up early."

"Yes, I am up. I'm up and it's morning," Tyson said. "Get back in bed, we're having morning sex."

He managed to _actually_ get out of bed forty-five minutes later. Armed with a mug of coffee, he stood in the backyard watching Zoey romp up and down in the freshly-fallen snow. Tyson watched her play, feeling light and refreshed and dangerously full of love. It was a good-sized yard. If Gabe could have a treehouse, then he wanted an outdoor rink, the same kind he'd had growing up in Germany. Kids loved skating outside.

Inside, Gabe was eating whole-wheat toast and already on the phone, speaking rapid-fire Swedish to Bea. He was doing a lot of blushing and smiling, so at least one Landeskog was happy about their news. Tyson kissed him on the side of the head as he walked past.

Gabe covered the phone and asked him, "You going to get Nate?" He was; Nate was definitely hungover and stranded at his house. Tyson couldn't wait to spring the news of their engagement on him.

Dressed, showered and ready to go, he stopped in the kitchen once more to say goodbye to Gabe and Zoey. He found them at the breakfast bar, Gabe clandestinely feeding Zoey peanut butter by the spoonful. Tyson laughed so hard that Gabe chased him to the front door, threatening to smear peanut butter on him.

He wasn't about to leave without kissing Gabe goodbye, peanut butter or no. Dodging the spoon Gabe still had in his hand, he yanked Gabe in by the shirt, kissing him hard enough that Gabe shivered. "Now who's desperate?" Tyson said smugly. It was worth getting punched in the stomach, but he wasn't above whining until Gabe kissed him again.

When they finally separated, Gabe followed him out to the porch and watched him get in Nate's car. Tyson paused before driving away to look back at him, still standing there in the snow. Gabe flipped him off, but when he lowered his hand he was smiling, the same helpless joy on his face that was coursing through Tyson's chest. The snow had started falling again, dusting his shoulders in white. At his feet sat Zoey, nosing at his hands, searching in vain for more peanut butter. His family, standing in the shadow of his house.

Tyson loved him so much it felt criminal, so much it fucking hurt.

He rolled the window down. "I can't wait to marry you," he said, loud enough that the whole street could hear him.

Gabe didn't say anything. He didn't need to—his expression said it all.

 


End file.
